Eyes in the Shadow
by Jawhara
Summary: People grieve in different ways. Some talk, some cry, some tap the ground with their umbrella. However they have the location in common: the grave of Sherlock Holmes. Onshot.


**Eyes in the Shadow**

**Summary**: People grieve in different ways. Some talk, some cry, some tap the ground with their umbrella. However they have the location in common: the grave of Sherlock Holmes.

**Disclaimer**: Nope. Won't ever be mine.

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><p>It took John a week to sum up the courage to go and visit Sherlock's grave again. He stood there, desperately trying to gain the courage to speak. His friend, his best friend was there, deep down, rotting.<p>

"Sherlock.." His voice broke. He took a deep breath and started again:" Sherlock..." He couldn't even begin to say what he wanted to say.

Seconds passed that felt like hours until finally; finally he took a step forward and touched the gravestone. His cold fingertips traced the writing. There were so many things left to say but only a short sentence, one he had heard so many times from his friend would find its way past his lips: „Sherlock… I'm bored."

It was as if something inside John broke, he finally allowed his tears to flow.

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><p>Mrs. Hudson visited the grave every day. Sherlock had been a son for her. She knew that he was gone but that didn't stop her from putting up dishes for three when she called John for dinner.<p>

She'd been yelling at the gravestone in the beginning. At least as much as Mrs. Hudson could yell, it was nothing more than talking about all the little things that always annoyed her in a slightly raised voice. All those hateful little things that she missed so dearly.

By now she talked about John. How he didn't eat well, didn't sleep, couldn't concentrate. How restless he felt. How he paced through the apartment at night and how he forbade her to throw away any of Sherlock's stuff.

"He misses you," she'd say before leaving. "I just hope he finds a way to cope."

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><p>There was no spoken word when he visited; only soft footprints and the silent tapping of an umbrella against the ground. Every once in a while Mycroft would take a few minutes to spend at his brothers grave. He stood there, every time at precisely the same place.<p>

Memories flooded his mind, sad and happy, pleasant and unpleasant alike. He could see Sherlock's face, could see him smile. He also remembered the times his little brother had cried as a child, and the very few times when he shed tears as an adult.

Mycroft tried to shift the blame every time he came; he was never successful. He tried to convince his unruly mind that he'd done everything possible to keep Sherlock out of trouble; that he couldn't have done more...

There was a small, nagging voice in the back of his head, telling him that it was he, Mycroft, who made Sherlock vulnerable for Moriarty's scheme. Mycroft smiled grimly. The voice, it sounded exactly like Moriarty.

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><p>"I don't see why we have to be here!"<p>

"Shut up!" Sgt. Sally Donavan stood before the grave, Anderson a few feet behind her, hesitant to come closer. They had missed the ceremony and Anderson wouldn't have come without his very persuasive colleague.

"It's only proper, even if he was a fraud." Donavan stepped closer and touched the gravestone momentarily. She'd always called him a freak, a monster but that didn't change the fact that she admired his brilliance. She'd readily told of her suspicions, because she felt vulnerable after trusting him, and trusting his abilities. However it didn't change the fact that she felt guilty. She blamed herself for the suicide of the super sleuth.

"Sally... Sally, let's go, come on." Anderson stepped from one foot onto the other, clearly uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," Donavan whispered those words before she left with Anderson.

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><p>Lestrade went to the grave early in the morning. His colleagues were still asleep and usually he would be too. However Sherlock had called him so many times at four or five in the morning, normally to inquire about a case, to share a lead or to announce his boredom. It only seemed proper to visit his grave at that time.<p>

"The whole Yard misses you." He said it quietly, but the wind carried his voice. "They are never going to admit it though. You could deduce it in a minute. Our kitchen didn't explode once in the past week and it creeps them out." He smiled, remembering that particular incident when Sherlock had tested something with eggs in the microwave. The microwave caught fire and then, well...

"We have a new case, you would love it. We found this guy in an abandoned warehouse, there is no recognizable cause of death. No trauma, no gunshot, no poison, no drugs, nothing." He liked to tell Sherlock about the baffling cases.

Sometimes he felt like the late consulting detective was looking over his shoulder, guiding his thoughts.

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><p>Sherlock Holmes watched them all. For the first time in his life did he experience real emotion. He felt a huge surge of affection and protectiveness toward John and Mrs. Hudson. He felt gratitude toward Lestrade. He was glad seeing his brother, even though he could never tell what he was thinking. And he was pleasantly surprised that Sgt. Donavan visited.<p>

Sherlock wanted to tell them all that he was still alive, but he couldn't. He would only endanger them. He turned to leave the cemetery when his phone made a noise, _that_noise:

"I'll miss you, Mr. Holmes."

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><p><strong>AN.:** Hi. Thank you all for reading. I have a suggestion for you that would make me happy: Leave me a review, tell me what you think.  
>And for all those who mark this story as a favorite story, could you please leave a review and tell me why you did that? I have to admit that the marking alone makes me happy, but I'm trying to improve my writing skills and that's what I need your help for. (However I do appreciate someone simply writing: You're amazing! *wink*)<p> 


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